When I was four,
I loved to play pretend.
My pretending was as real
as the slants of golden light
that danced through my window
on crisp mornings in early fall.
In my world,
I was the queen
of a glittering realm of fairies with wings
that sent prisms of multicolored light
twirling and frolicking in all directions,
and dragons with hides like leather
and eyes like the greenest jade.
Though, in reality,
I was just a small girl
with a wild and fruitful imagination.
A girl whose mother dressed her
in warm mocha sweaters and blue jeans
with a pair of tiny black flats
and hats with smiling daisies.
This small girl lived for Sesame Street
and the hilarious adventures
of Scrat, the squirrel from Ice Age.
I remember long winter days,
making glittery paper crafts
and doing yoga with plush bean bag toys.
I remember my grandmother’s visits
with frosted, crumbly cookies
from her favorite kosher bakery
and the crinkle of wax paper.
I remember going on field trips
with my preschool
to the edible garden.
I used the fresh strawberries as fancy scarlet lipstick
to pair with the marigolds behind my oversized ears.
I remember the happy games I used to play
and the difficulty of seeing things
in a different way from everyone else
but never being shy,
and always remembering to be optimistic,
even in the hardest of situations.
Roën Rosenberg is a newly-minted 12-year-old who spends her time in the company of what she loves the most: animals (she has seven at home and acts in service of rescuing many others); books (her nose is almost always in one while she carries at least one other is her free hand while two others wait patiently on deck in her backpack); ice cream (Ben & Jerry have her number); Minecraft role-play YouTube series (Aphmau is her jam) and her wonderful imagination.